In Another Time
by The Young Pilgrim
Summary: AU. Cophine. Time works a little differently in this world. What will happen when Cosima and Delphine aren't in the right time?
1. Glass

**A/N: This was originally for Skins, but Orphan Black has taken over my life and I cannot get this idea out of my head, so I did some switching around and here this is, whatever it is.**

**Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, own nothing even related to Orphan Black.**

**All mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

_**Trigger warning for blood/injury**_

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**Chapter 1: Glass**

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**November 2009**

"Look, mate, I'm not going through this again."

"I was just fuckin' asking! No need to get so pissy!"

"No, no. Every time you're 'just fucking asking' you end up getting your way."

"Goddamn. Fine! I'll go. No need to get your knickers in a twist."

With one last glare my way, Jack O'Malley shoves open the front door of the dingy pub we've been sitting in for the last few hours. The wind pushes back against it hard enough to knock Jack backwards and send the door slamming shut. He curses under his breath and braces his shoulder against the door before barreling through it. He stumbles, but actually makes it out this time. The door crashes violently into its frame the second he let's go of it.

Through the door's streaked windows I watch as he pulls his head back and lifts the collar of his deep green windbreaker as high as it will go to try to block out some of the rain pounding down on him.

When I turn back toward the bar, most of the patrons and Jack's Uncle, a plump old Irish man by the name of Alastair who happens to be the owner of the pub in which we spend most of our time, are all staring at me.

I cross my arms and petulantly say, "What? It was his turn to get a cab."

The customers, all three of them, grumble and turn back to their half-empty drinks. Alastair laughs, his rotund belly bouncing with the noise, and shakes his head at me, "One of these days some'uns gunna knock some sense into ya', girlie."

I roll my eyes and turn back toward the rain. It slaps against the roof and the ground mercilessly, the sound of it a dull roar that muffles most everything else, everything except the wind which sails into the building hard enough to shake its very roots. Jack must be struggling to stay on his feet.

I'm glad, for once, to actually be in that shitty little pub, and to think, all it took was a fucking monsoon. It's so much nicer inside that I almost forget about the sticky bar, spotted floors, and permanent fog of smoke. Almost. But they could never really be hidden, though the horribly dim lighting is making a valiant effort.

A few minutes later, the door is ripped open and Jack fights his way inside. The sounds of the storm roar inside now that the seal's been broken. Jack grabs the door frame and heaves himself inside, the door slamming behind him, rattling the frame and knocking him to the floor. He bounces back up though and promptly shakes like a dog.

He walks to the bar and calls over his shoulder, "It's no fuckin' use. No one's out driving in this shit." Then he plumps himself on an unstable stool and holds up two fingers toward Alastair.

"So we're just going to sit here until the fucking rain stops?"

"Listen Cos, I've fuckin' 'ad the worst day. I just wanna get pissed and talk shit with my best mate. So if you're gonna act like you've got a stick up your arse, then fuckin' move and I'll talk shit with Ali."

I hold up my hands in defense, "Alright, alright. Fine." I drop into the chair next to him and yell at Alistair, "How 'bout those pints then?"

"Make it a couple of shots of tequila there Ali!"

Alistair nods and goes about filling two shot glasses to the brim. As soon as the glasses hit the table, Jack snags one in each hand, and a moment later they're both slammed back on the table. A second after that, the taste hits him and Jack's face twists together in disgust.

"That'll do then." He shrugs and holds up two fingers once more at Alistair, who, without a second thought, immediately fills the glasses until there's barely a millimeter 'til the clear liquid reached the top.

Alistair is called to other side of the bar by the three bar flies and when he leaves, I turn to Jack and ask "So what happened then?"

Jack just gestures to the shot glass in front of me - oh he was actually going to let me drink it this time - and waits until I pick it up before he starts his countdown, "One, two, three, bottom's up ya' pussy!"

I scrunch my nose and lips together as Jack howls like a feral dog.

"That's the stuff, babe!"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off!" I smile at him, "Now, tell Auntie Cosima what happened that's got you all would up."

"Right." He shakes out his shoulders like he was warming up for a big game, "So I was at the fucking site" - Jack works construction - "just fucking doing my job, hammering the shit out of some sidewalk and this little brunette in her fucking ' little Ms. Important,' outfit" he actually uses air quotes, "walks right up to me, hips shaking, eyes staring right at me, the whole deal. So obviously, I'm thinkin' she's lookin' for a goer, you know. So I said to her, 'babes you lookin' to jack off my hammer or sumfin' which is some of the most classic shit I've got, and this bitch, she fuckin' slaps me, straight up, no warning, in front of the boys. Which like whatever I've been slapped before, but then this skinny little thing gets right in my face, screamin' about sexual harassment an' shit an' I'm like, 'babes stop yellin', my dick can't get any harder,' an' this bitch just yells 'you're fired!'" Jack's voice knocks up a few octaves and takes on a rather nasal quality for the impersonation, "And I'm like you've got to be shitting me. No tiny arsehole is gonna slap me an' then fire me, fuck that. So I told her that she best fuck off. At this point we're both fuckin' screamin' an' my pussy twat of a boss comes running out of his cosy little office all 'I'm sorry, Ms. Richardson this an' this'll never happen again, Ms. Richardson that' and then the fuckin' dick actually fuckin' fires me. An' now I've got no goddamn job and a sore as shit face to match." Cook sits back in his chair with a noticeable sigh and downs the shot that Alistair had placed in front of him during his rant.

"You can always work for me, Jackie." Alistair grumbles from the other side of the bar.

Jack nods thankfully and blows air out of his mouth heavily. "It's just, I actually liked that fuckin' job, apart from my fuckin' boss. I mean it was shit and paid shit, but the lads were funny and new a fit bird when they saw one."

I chuckle lightly and wrap my right arm around his shoulders. "If you want you can stay at mine for a few weeks, spare bedroom's still open."

He nods, then shakes his head. "Nah, I'll just bounce around for a while." As he speaks, his bravado comes back, his chest puffs out, his voice gets louder, he's back to being 'Jack the lad', "I was gettin' bored of that gig anyway."

"Well the offer's always there."

He nods a bit more thoughtfully this time, then turns his head to the right to look away from me for a second, but grabs the hand I still have around his shoulder. "Cos, your watch is stopped."

"Fuck, really?" I pull my arm back toward me and check the screen. _Dammit_. The digital numbers display an unchanging '11 March 2007. 9:53 PM.'

"When are you going?"

"Only a couple years back."

"You leavin' now?" His voice is a harsh whisper.

"Got to." I shrug.

He shakes his head and raises his voice to a loud whisper, "You can't fuckin' do it here!"

"I've got no choice, Jack." I stand up. "I'll be back soon enough." I pat his shoulder and head toward Alistair, Jack grumbles behind me.

"Oi, Ali! Can I get a bottle of beer?"

"Poundin' them down today, are we?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." I take the bottle and walk to the back of the pub where the bathrooms are. Luckily, the ladies' room is hardly used so it's relatively clean. I mean, it smells like bleach and vomit and the sink's an odd greyish color, but it has to be nicer than the guys' room.

I lock the door behind me and sit on the toilet with the lid down.

_Fuck it. _I down the beer in 3 solid gulps. _Could always use some liquid courage. _I take a few deep breaths before standing back up to face the dirt-coated mirror over the sink. I set the beer bottle in the sink, hold on to either side of it with both hands, and stare at the girl looking back at me - mildly intoxicated, mildly wild eyes stare back at me. With a smirk for the girl in the mirror and one solid swing against the side of the faucet, the beer bottle crashes into the sink and shatters on impact. Shards of glass fly all over the small room.

I pick up one of the larger pieces resting in the sink and bring it up to my eyes. The low light reflects off the brown glass, separating into several beams that dance around the room as I twist the shard around in my hand. A small sliver nicks my hand, cutting open a scratch just deep enough to draw blood. _Sharp. _I turn on the cold water until it cascades down and slowly begins to fill the sink; once it's half full, I shut off the faucet.

With one more breath in, I bring the fragment to my wrist and press heavily down until blood pools to the surface. I lean desperately into the sink as I drag the glass through my skin, a clean red line forming in its wake. It takes a moment for the pain to register, but when it does, a rush of expletives flow from my mouth.

"Shit, shit, shit!" It fucking hurts, but I keep pulling the glass until the cut is more than halfway to my elbow. Blood pours from the wound, but I do my best to contain it to the sink.

I'm barely able to grab the glass with my injured arm, but I still manage the switch. I push the point into the smooth skin on my other arm and yank it, hard. This time the cut isn't as long, but it's jagged and much, much deeper. I drop the now blood-red glass into the basin and hold my arms over the sink, trying to keep the blood from dripping all over the floor.

I watch my blood gush from the openings into the water, turning it orange, for what seems like hours, but can't have been more than a few seconds, until I start to feel dizzy.

The world is coming in and out of focus, I can feel my self teetering against the sink.

Then, ever so slowly, the edges of my vision begin to turn black. _This is it._ My arms are heavy. My head aches. The great unending blackness swarms in around me.

I feel myself falling to the floor.

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	2. The Office

**A/N: I am so very sorry for how long this took. My laptop decided to die on me, but I've got a new one now, so it (hopefully) won't be another month until I update.**

**I probably could have put the bit in the beginning at the end of the last chapter, but I wanted to leave you all well and confused in regards to Cosima's death. **

**This isn't much plot, but a lot of explaining in the form of a flashback, so I hope you can start to understand the abstract of this story.  
**

**Thanks for reviewing, following, favoriting, all that jazz, it's quite nice of you all. **

**Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, own nothing even related to Orphan Black.**

**All mistakes are mine and mine alone.**

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**March 11, 2007**

I wake up - very much alive - on the cold floor of a bathroom I don't recognize. My head throbs from where I must have slammed it into the ground and my wrists ache from the glass probably still embedded in my skin.

"Fuck." I pull my wrists up to my face to examine them for any signs that there's still glass poking at my bones. No glass, just two raised white rivers flowing parallel to my veins. Two new scars to add to the collection.

Generally I aim for somewhere a little less noticeable, less dramatic. A shot through the heart usually does the trick. Seriously. However, I don't think the police would be happy at the sound of a gunshot ringing out in a pub, especially when the supposed victim is nowhere to be found. Well, at least not where, or rather when they're looking, seeing as I technically died just a moment ago, though that was more than two years from now.

Confused? Good. Welcome to the trip, man.

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**March 9, 2003**

"Cosima come here for a minute!" My dad shouted from downstairs, his voice echoing through the mostly empty house.

"What is it?" I yelled back, annoyed that he was calling me away from my friends during my birthday "party" (and I use the term party loosely. I only invited two people to what should have been called a birthday get-together.).

"Just come down here." Came the irritated reply.

I smiled apologetically at my friends, Jack and Anna. "I'll be right back."

I slide down the spiral banister, yelling an irritated, "what!" as I went.

"Stop doing that, you're going to end up falling over the edge one of these days." I rolled my eyes. "And stop doing that to. Honestly I wonder where you learned your manners."

"Oh I wonder." I gave him a pointed look. He rolled his eyes. When I quirked an eyebrow up, he at least had the decency to look a little ashamed. "Anyway, what d'you want?" I crossed my arms and tapped my foot against the hardwood floor.

"We need to have a chat. Tell your friends it's time to go."

"What? No! It's my birthday!"

He sighed heavily, sadly. "I know, Cos, but you've already opened presents, eaten cake, and played in your room -"

"I'm a teenager, I don't play. We were hanging out."

"Fine, fine." He waved his hand dismissively. "You've had time to 'hang out' and whatnot and now it's time for them to go."

"I've only just entered my angry teenage years and you're already practically handing me my first series of self-righteous, daddy-hating poems."

"Now." He said, not with malice, but in a tone that allowed no argument.

As I turned on my heels and slunk back up the stairs, I heard him mutter, "little shit," under his breath.

Half an hour later I sat in the office my dad never let me see before. It was a large room in the back of the house hidden behind a (previously) perpetually locked door. On the three walls lacking a door, there were expansive bookshelves stretching from corner to corner and floor to ceiling. Most of the shelves were filled with books, though there were a few knickknacks being used as bookends. Of the books on the shelves, only a few seemed to be actual novels, most were large Moleskine notebooks with various hand-written titles scrawled on the spine. All of the books, or at least all the books I could see, seemed to be about abstract theoretical topics, mostly to do with time and the universe. On the wall behind me, there were rather large and rather old paintings on either side of the door depicting famous ancient events: Caesar's demise, Jesus's Crucifixion, Icarus's plunge, Ophelia drowning, and still more I couldn't place. In the middle of the room, taking up much of the floor space, sat a large ruddy wooden desk. The desk itself had been worn down, there were marks and divots, complete chunks of wood just missing from the corners, but it had a fresh coat of paint and looked like it had just been polished. My father sat uncomfortably, his hands constantly knotting and twisting together, across the desk from me in a plush black leather chair large enough to swallow him whole.

He let me take in my surroundings in silence. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him watching me, his expression controlled, though a nervous sweat was dampening his hairline. When I turned back to him, he lifted his lips in a tight smile.

It was silent for a while longer.

"So did you bring me here just to enjoy the view? Because I have, it's a lovely office, quite lovely, I'm just not sure it's lovely enough to, oh, I don't know, keep locked for thirteen years."

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle. "No, no. That's not why you're here." He replied with a mysterious - and slightly mischievous - smile playing on his lips.

The silence relapsed.

I gave him a searching look, obviously hoping for more information. When he avoided my eyes and continued to fidget in his chair I asked, "Do you just want me to start guessing because I will." I clicked my tongue in mock deep thought. "Do I have a long-lost sister who's mysteriously reappeared? I've always felt as though I had a twin that was stolen or went missing, something tragic enough that my distraught father couldn't bear to speak about." He glared. "No? Are you pregnant!? Dad, what have I told you about those wild flings you've been having."

"For God's sake, Cosima I'm not bloody pregnant!" He shouted, exasperated.

I gasped, "Am I pregnant!?"

He hung his head in his hands and sighed loudly. After a moment he peaked from behind his fingertips, "Are you quite finished?"

"Are you going to tell me why I'm here?"

"Yes!" He snapped. "Well, yes." He nodded to himself, soundly much less sure of himself. "I've spent the last thirteen years and nine months trying to come up with what to say and clearly that hasn't done much good." He paused. "I suppose I might as well tell you the way my father told me." He cleared his throat. "For generations, our family has been appointed a rather important task. It has been our duty to right the Universe's wrongs."

My eyebrows knitted together in confusion. When I opened my mouth to speak, my father held up a hand to stop me.

"You'll have all the time in the world for questions. Just let me speak."

I nodded. He half smiled.

"These wrongs can be rather detrimental to the whole of the Universe if left unattended and, as such, it is of the utmost importance for you to continue this, this family business of sorts."

"Dad, I don't-" I interrupted.

Again, he held up his hand. "Cosima please." He took a deep breath. "For our family's entire history, the firstborn child of each generation has had the unique ability to travel through time."

I laughed, a deep, bellowing laugh beginning in my stomach and rolling out of my mouth until it bounced around the room. All this for a joke. "I should have known! You had going though, you really did," I snickered as I stood up. "Time travel!" I guffawed.

"Cosima Niehaus, sit down." He was not joking.

"Dad." I looked at him, he stared back. "Dad you can't be serious." I mumbled, reclaiming my seat. I looked at his face, his eyes were concerned, but serious, his jaw held firm, showing no signs of concealed laughter. "You're joking right?" I asked quietly, still hoping he was joking.

"I'm afraid not. And I'm afraid that that won't be the end of the surprises. Please, please, let me finish this time."

I nodded gravely.

"This thing, time traveling, it's not something to do at your leisure. When you leave and where, or rather when, you go is dictated by this," he tapped his watch. "Presently, it's displaying the correct time, but every so often it stops at a strange time. That's the when to which you'll be traveling." He looked down, breathed in heavily, and looked me right in the eyes before continuing. "The way you'll be traveling is simple. There's only one way to leave this Universe so that you'll be sorted backward or forward, to when you need to go, and that's to die."

I could feel the air rush out of my lungs as my jaw dropped.

"Unfortunately, waiting around for nature to take its course is out of the question. All sorts of horrible things could happen while you wait. My solution has been these," he pulled a pill bottle out of the top drawer in his desk, "Arsenic pills. Effective, and with no clean-up."

"Clean-up?" I asked, worried.

"Yes, clean-up. When you die, your body, your clothes, the watch, any inanimate object touching your skin will leave with you. All else, any blood, weaponry, or people will be left behind. As such, you will have to find someone to clean up after your messes if such an event arises."

"There's no body? But, but I've seen-" I stumbled over my words, "I saw Grandma in her casket, I know I did."

"Grandma wasn't like us. It's difficult to explain and I'll just have to give you the basics for now, but, technically every second that has ever happened or will ever happen _is_ happening. Every time is happening all the time. But everyone else, barring the two of us, is stuck in one stream of time. When one of them dies, they have no need for their body as their soul, if you'd like to call it that, leaves this Universe permanently. Well, at least that version of their soul, but there's an infinite number of their souls in an infinite number of time streams, that's a tale for another time though. When I die and one day when this is your responsibility, when you die, you will need your bodies because your soul, and you only have one, only temporarily leave this Universe before it, along with your body, is shuffled back to when you're needed."

"Right. So what you're telling me is that suicide is the only mean of travelling through time?" I asked in disbelief.

"Basically." He said with a tone equal to that of a verbal shrug.

"So when I do travel through time, what the hell am I supposed to do when I get there?"

"This is where the time traveling thing gets decidedly less appealing. Your job will be to right-"

"-the Universe's wrongs." I finished for him. "You've already said that."

"Cosima!" He barked. "Just let me explain this, please." He added much more softly.

"Fine. Sorry." I sighed.

"Sometimes the Universe puts a person in the wrong time. Someone mean to be fighting with the Roman gladiators is stuck working in a cubicle in 2001. Their being there is messing up the paths of everyone in 2001 and the year 1. Both time streams are wrong according to all of history. This causes major problems the likes of which this world has never seen. Your duty will be to get them out of the wrong time so that the Universe can put them in the right one."

"I thought only inanimate objects can travel with me?"

"They won't be traveling with you, Cosima." I knitted my eyebrows together in confusion. "As I said before, there's only one way to leave this Universe and that's through death." He swallowed heavily and clasped his hands together on top of the desk. "You're not to travel with your marks, you're to kill them."

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